Chapter Six:
Night has fully fallen, lit only occasionally when the moon peaks through clouds that scud at a hectic pace across the dark sky. Three dark figures dismount from tired horses, when their feet hit the ground each of the men is all smiles for a moment.
D'Artagnan drops to one knee and reaches out a palm laying it flat on the ground, silently he gives thanks to be on French soil once more. He hadn't realized until this moment just how very homesick for his homeland he'd become. A large hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes lightly, d'Artagnan looks up and nods at Porthos, pushing to his feet he grins.
"It's good to be in friendly territory I know," Porthos says softly. "You'll be safe from here, my friend. But please tell me you'll go no further tonight. Stay, camp here with us then you can be on your way at first light. Your horse can't carry you any further without rest anyway and you know it."
The young Gascon wars with himself for a moment before he acquiesces, Porthos is right. And though he'd love to just push onwards towards Paris, if he makes his mount lame in the process it'll only add further delay – and that he cannot countenance. "Agreed," he says wearily. "It's been a long day and we've made good progress considering everything that's happened. I'll push on again in the morning."
Porthos flashes him a pleased smile and limps over to a large and conveniently flat boulder, before sinking down onto it with sigh. "Good," he affirms, "Now what we got to eat? I'm starving."
Athos swims back to the shore with Tabita, once the water is shallow enough he stands and strides, smirking to himself only slightly when she has to swim further than he does because she's so little.
Tabita catches it though, that tiny smirk, nothing more really than the slight quirking of his lips beneath his beard, but she pokes her tongue out at him anyway. Refusing the hand he then gallantly offers to help her onto the beach, the obstinate creature pulls up the sodden hem of her under garment and makes her own way onto the sand.
Athos shakes his head, headstrong, stubborn, lovely women – they'll be the death of him yet. This thought causes a sharp pang in his heart as images of Anne go through his mind, which then flits on quickly to Constance and her unknown state. He pushes them back forcefully, some things just cannot be changed, and he does not wish to dwell – at least not right now anyway.
The sky has grown quite dark, but some light from the fires and the sounds from the camp drift on the breeze and serve to remind Athos that any of his men could discover them any moment. He searches in the gloom for the pile of his discarded outerwear, picking up his soft leather doublet he crosses to where Tabita is standing – shivering. And without asking or even offering he wraps it around her, holding it closed with his hands firmly at the opening he effectively traps her in front of him.
"Beth," he murmurs softly, until she looks up at him, eyes wide and uncertain, longing and sad.
"Should go," she says, pushing back slightly to encourage him to release her, "Que estoy hacienda aqui?" she says under her breath.
"A moment . . . please?" Athos pleads. He is well aware that he doesn't know exactly what he's doing here, but he finds that he cannot just let her go after what's occurred between them, without at least trying to tell her that he doesn't regret it.
Tabita nods, but says nothing further; Athos shifts his grip on the leather in his hands, releasing the left one so that he can gently cup the side of her face. "You are so lovely," he says quietly. "You don't weigh me down, Beth. When I'm near you – it's complicated yes, but somehow you make things . . . better." He smiles at her softly, blue eyes open and honest, hoping she'll accept what he's saying for the simple truth it is. He has no guarantees to offer, no idea even of what happens next, but she needs to know this.
She stares up him, studying him quietly in the poor light for a long moment before she replies. "I'm glad," she says, "For me too."
Stretching up on her toes, Tabita softly brushes her mouth over his until Athos can't refuse the invitation and he frees his second hand to cup the other side of her face. Holding her head carefully between his hands he kisses her with a tenderness he's never felt before in his life, then brushes kisses over every inch of her face until she starts softly laughing, her eyes bright and sparkling.
"I go," she says in the end, pushing at his chest ineffectually until Athos relents and releases her from his hold only to snatch her fingers up within his.
"Thank you for tonight," he says earnestly. "It feels like a gift."
The lovely Spaniard blushes, smiling. "De nada - things will be alright, Athos. You will see," she tells him.
God, he really wants to believe her. Letting her go he watches as she quickly gathers her dry outer garments, shaking his head at her when she goes to remove his doublet in order to return it to him.
"It'll keep you warm until you return to camp and can change into dry things. I can get it from you later."
"Si," she nods, "Buenas noches, Athos. Dulces suenos."
"Tomorrow," he replies, and there's a promise in his tone he doesn't hear.
The Queen of France is practically bursting with joyful expectation by the time she reaches Constance's bed chamber, Doctor Sauveterre and the maid carrying the baby d'Artagnan on her heels.
Slipping quietly through the heavy door, Anne nods at the maid she left in charge of her friend's care, before hurrying to Constance's bedside and reaching for her hand.
Constance is dozing, but stirs as Anne seats herself beside her on the bed, eyes fluttering open and landing on the Queen. Anne's presence takes a moment to fully register and then immediately fear creeps across the planes of Constance's beautiful face.
"No fear, my dear," Anne hurries to reassure her. "I have only wonderful news for you."
At this, Constance noticeably relaxes. "The baby?" she asks.
Anne's beatific smile widens and she turns, motioning to both her followers to fully enter the room.
Doctor Sauveterre approaches first, nodding to Constance as he crosses to the far side of the bed and clinically picks up her other hand. He measures her pulse and notes that though she's still nursing a fever – which bothers him, she undoubtedly seems much brighter. He smiles at her. "Madame, I am very gratified to see that you - like your daughter are doing much better."
"Then where . . . ?" Constance suddenly spies the maid waiting patiently and cradling a small bundle in her arms, it stops her mid sentence. Her mouth falls open slackly, eyes instantly swimming with tears.
The Queen can bear it no longer, releasing her dear friend's hand she pushes quickly off the bed, and crosses over to the maid, who carefully hands over the tiny infant in her arms. Anne brings the child to her mother, unable to control her own tears of joy as she sees them coursing silently down Constance's flushed cheeks.
Sitting herself as before, Anne waits as Doctor Sauveterre helps Constance to sit up. He expertly fluffs pillows and places them to support her, enabling it so that she can safely take her daughter into her arms. Anne then hands over to the new mother her precious cargo, watching enraptured as Constance stares in wonder at her newborn daughter while the baby d'Artagnan gazes up into her mother's face.
"Oh . . . she's so much like him," Constance whispers at length, her fingertips brushing lovingly through the baby's black hair. She smiles, her eyes lifting to Anne's, "Even the texture is the same, silky just like his."
"Don't you see yourself tin there too?" Anne replies, laughing softly in amusement.
Constance blushes, shrugging slightly. "She's very fair skinned - that's like me I guess. But mostly I just see him, and that's simply perfect to me." Turning to Doctor Sauveterre she asks, "Is she really okay? Will she live?"
The king's physician smiles paternally. "We can definitely be encouraged by her remarkable progress, Madame. Your daughter has already proven to have a tenacious hold on life, there is no reason that I see to be anything other than optimistic."
"I told you she was a fighter, Constance," Anne remarks happily. "I would have been surprised by anything less. I declare D'Artagnan is going to adore her."
Constance nods, a fresh batch of tears slipping free of her swimming eyes. "He will be the most attentive father ever – you'll see," she gushes, "for he has the biggest heart of anyone, and the most passionate nature."
Moving her gaze from the baby to Anne she looks wistful and slightly sad. "I swear I dreamt that you told me he's coming," she says, "I keep hearing you say it – in my head – that d'Artagnan's coming home to me."
Anne smiles, reaching over to cup Constance's cheek just briefly. "Oh that wasn't a dream, my dearest friend. I sent for him almost immediately after the baby came. You both seemed in such grave danger and . . . well I couldn't shake the belief that if he were only here – then somehow everything would be okay. It seems a little foolish now I guess, and there is no way to know for sure if my message to Athos has gotten through . . . "
"It'll have gotten through." Constance's tone is all steadfast belief, "If you sent it with a musketeer, Your Majesty - it'll have gotten through."
"I did."
Constance's face lights up and she looks so incandescently happy in this moment that the Queen is almost blinded by it.
"Then he's coming," she says. "Athos would never refuse to send him to me, and d'Artagnan would move heaven and earth if he had to - to get home."